Disaster Patrol
by luvsanime02
Summary: Clint can't seem to run into the new guy in his building without looking like a disaster. Sam offers sympathy and advice.


**Disclaimer: **I don't own Marvel comics or characters or movies and am making no money off of this fic.

**AN: **Written for the February 8th Winterhawk Mandatory Fun Day prompt: featuring Sam Wilson week.

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**Disaster Patrol** by luvsanime02

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"Alright," Sam says, his tone no-nonsense, "you're going to need to explain this to me from the beginning."

Clint supposes that's fair. It doesn't meant that he wants to, though. "I'm a disaster," he says, hoping that that's enough to encompass everything. It usually is.

Sam just waves the words away, takes a sip of his beer, and then fixes Clint with an impatient look. Right. He's not someone who Clint can bullshit. Sam's a lot like Natasha that way, only less terrifying in general.

Clint looks into his own glass of beer. The light amber liquid does not offer him any suggestions, so Clint sighs, making sure to sound as put-upon as possible. "I keep meeting him at the worst possible times," he says.

"'Him' being this mystery guy who's the hottest guy you've ever seen," Sam says, raising an eyebrow.

Clint nods, feeling miserable again just thinking about it. "It wasn't so bad the first time," he says, starting the whole story despite the feeling that Sam's going to laugh at him by the end. "I just got back from working out, so I was sweaty and stuff. Lots of people work out. That guy _definitely _works out, with thighs like that."

"Right," Sam says. "Okay, sounds normal enough. Why didn't you talk to him then?"

Clint would complain that Sam shouldn't make assumptions, but he's 100% right. "Well," Clint explains, trying to sound reasonable and likely failing, "I was sweaty and all. I didn't know this was going to be the start of a horrible trend, so I just thought I'd say hi some other time when I looked okay."

Sam folds his arms across his chest. Clint think it's hilarious how much he goes out of his way not to touch the bar top. Clint's slouched against it, not caring. He has more important things to worry about. "That sounds reasonable," Sam admits. He sounds approving but not surprised, like other people would be at Clint demonstrating common sense. It's one of the main reasons why Sam's such a good friend.

Clint nods. "Then, the next time I saw him, I just got back from Helsinki," he says. Helsinki being one awful mission that lasted four times as long as it should have and Clint barely walked away with all his fingers still attached. He'd also had very few opportunities to bathe or shave, and he'd probably looked like some sort of wild creature from the depths of a swamp when he got back home. Just in time to run into the new guy in Clint's building.

Sam winces. "Okay," he says, "that's bad."

Clint nods. "The next time I saw him, I'd been working with the new trainees," Clint says. He might as well continue. "We did the suicide run."

Meaning that Clint had come back to his building sweaty and covered in mud and paint.

Sam's look this time was slightly disbelieving. Yeah, Clint can't believe this is his life, either.

"You haven't even spoken to him yet, have you," Sam says. It isn't a question.

Clint shakes his head in the negative. "Didn't want to make things worse," he says. Bad things usually happen whenever Clint opens his mouth. Granted, it's usually on purpose, but not when Clint's trying to chat up the really hot guy who just moved into the building.

"He's so hot," Clint says, staring mournfully into his glass some more. The beer's gone. He's debating getting another one, actually. "And, like, he always looks like he just got done with a photo shoot or something, Sam. Perfectly clean clothes, hair pulled back, shaved."

Clint wouldn't mind seeing some stubble on that jawline, actually, but that's hardly the point.

Sam's not laughing at Clint, which is something, at least. He's staring thoughtfully out at the rest of the bar. "Have you tried purposely meeting him when you don't look like a disaster?" he asks.

Clint blinks. "Like how?" he asks.

Sam gives him another look. This one says that Clint's not pretty enough to be _this_ dumb. Clint disagrees. "I mean," Sam says slowly, "why don't you shower, shave, put on some nice clothes and grab a welcoming gift, and then knock on his door."

Clint stares. He's never really considered that as an option before. "What if I do that and he's not home?" Clint asks, because knowing his luck, that's exactly what would happen.

Sam pats Clint's arm. It's only a little condescending, but mostly sympathetic. "Then you try again," he says calmly.

Right. Okay. That sounds… oddly doable.

Clint feels better. He gives Sam a grateful look. "Thanks, man," he says. Things like this are why Sam's his other best friend, really.

Sam shakes his head. "Sure," he says. "Anything to get you to stop moping about this guy. You've been complaining for two months. Get a new hobby."

Then again, maybe Clint's just drawn to people who are assholes. Well, if that's the case, then he's fine with it. Especially now that he's got a plan for how to finally speak to the hot guy in his building.

Clint orders a second beer, after all. He needs the courage. Still, things are looking up. He'll take it.


End file.
